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Rick held her away slightly. ‘Don’t be jealous of May. It’s about time she got off the treadmill. I hope she’s having some fun at last. I won’t be sorry to see the back of Mr Bloody Obnoxious either.’

‘I know you’ve never liked him,’ sighed Cathy, thinking that no blokes were ever good enough for their daughters so far as dads were concerned. In any case, it was probably better to steer him off the subject of Aiden. ‘But her catching a boat makes me feel even more that we’ve missed ours.’

Picking one of her hairs off his shirt, Rick paused for a moment then turned to her. ‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘This is what we’ll do. First of all we’ll get shot of this place. That’ll free you up. I can get casual work anywhere. We’ll put the house on the market and while we’re waiting for a buyer we’ll go off in the camper van and have a look at places. We could start off in Cornwall and work our way up through Wales and the west of Scotland and we’ll keep looking until we find somewhere that feels like home. We could go off to France, if you like, or maybe travel for a while. It’s up to you.’

Cathy was feeling a touch of cold about her own feet now. ‘But what will we live on?’

Shrugging, Rick headed for the door. ‘Something will turn up. Anyway, money doesn’t matter. Isn’t that what we’ve always said?’

Blowing a kiss at her through the window, he ran off in the direction of the car park, leaving Cathy staring after him in dismay. After years of casting herself as a free spirit anchored by the ties of domestic duties, the reality of being unleashed to take off in any direction had suddenly lost its appeal. It was all very well pretending money didn’t matter until you ran out. Then look at what had happened. Now, when she could almost touch her dream of success, she was suddenly reluctant to give up on the idea of becoming a successful businesswoman with cash to splash. And, she thought, catching sight of her reflection in one of the mirrors, she could get some Botox and fix her frown lines.

At last she collected herself sufficiently to change the sign on the door, then leant against it whilst she surveyed her domain. This was her world, the place that she’d created. How could she give up on it now, when better times were just around the corner? Someone banged violently on the glass panel, almost sending her into orbit. A customer! Right, she’d think about what to say to Rick later, but first she would attend to her business.

‘I’ve been down the library and they’ve never heard of your production.’

Great, just what she needed, a vengeful Miss Marple.

‘You need some publicity, my dear. It’ll be a crying shame if no one sees your performance. Now give me some leaflets and I’ll make sure they’re distributed for you.’

Trust her to get lumbered with a persistent old biddy. What a drag! Once the makeover was complete, Soul Survivor would be so intimidatingly sophisticated and glamorous that no daft old bat or teenage girls hoping to nick nail varnish would dare cross the threshold. Until then, she’d just have to assume her Death Stare to put them off. May really didn’t know how cosseted she was! Perhaps a few days in the real world fending for herself would help her appreciate what she was turning her back on. It was also about time she stopped being so inconsiderate and let them know exactly where she was. The sooner the better, for everyone’s sake.

It wasn’t until
Lucille
took off backwards, aided by a sudden gust of wind, that May asked herself if she shouldn’t have been more thorough about establishing Bill’s credentials. Their course seemed to be set in a slow but relentlessly determined arc across what felt like a very narrow stretch of water separating her from other vessels. Looking to Bill to settle her doubts about the advisability of this manoeuvre, she found him tight-lipped but with a wild-eyed expression which was only matched by that on the faces of various yachtsmen popping up on decks as
Lucille
veered towards their expensive gel coats as gracefully and unpredictably as a pig on roller skates.

What a time, thought May, frantically wondering which boat to fend off first, to discover that she was off to sea with a complete nincompoop!

‘You’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?’ she suggested.

Gaining momentum,
Lucille
seemed to have set her sights on a close encounter with one particularly beautifully kept model whose skipper was now so near that May could see the tears brimming up in his eyes.

‘Get ready to fend us off, just in case,’ Bill said, with a studied nonchalance that wasn’t very reassuring. Unable to bear it any longer, May lunged over
Lucille
’s stern determined to push them off or be crushed in the process. Bracing herself to take the strain, she waited for her arms to snap like twigs at any moment. She closed her eyes, preferring not to watch a grown man cry, and got ready for the inevitable collision. Just seconds away from unpleasant phone calls to insurance companies,
Lucille
’s engine let out a farty roar whereupon she seemed to remember herself and, quite meekly, allowed Bill to steer her out of trouble.

‘There are dinghies with more horsepower than this,’ he muttered defensively as they began to snake their way to where the narrow creek joined the wide main channel which led, eventually, to Portsmouth’s harbour mouth. ‘Not that we were ever really in danger of hitting anything,’ he continued, not quite meeting her eyes.

May was too busy weighing up which was most likely to draw them to the attention of the local coastguard as a shipping hazard first: the little wooden boat or her skipper? But once they’d shaken out the sails and cut the engine, taking it in turns to steer with the smooth wooden tiller, she could feel herself relaxing. They spent the rest of the day simply getting to know the boat, tacking backwards and forwards across the lively green waters of the wide channel safely upstream of the busy harbour mouth.

Watching the sails fill and listening to the
shwoosh
of the bow wave caressing the hull, May’s worries seemed to slip away in the salty air. To begin with she was simply grateful to have snatched some precious breathing space, somewhere Aiden couldn’t mess with her head or make her feel guilty. But soon she was too busy concentrating on finding out what
Lucille
could do and trying to impress Bill that eventually she even stopped wondering what might be waiting for her back on dry land.

Bill, too, looked happier once he was satisfied that their provisions had been securely stowed, the safety equipment was to hand and everything was in order to cast off at first light. ‘We’ll stop at Eastbourne first. That’s nearly sixty nautical miles, which is quite far enough, especially while we’re getting attuned to the boat,’ he told her when they tied up on a temporary mooring to take a break. Spreading out a nautical map on the chart table, he showed her the route. ‘It’s another sixty nautical miles from there to Ramsgate, which is the best port from which to cross the Thames Estuary, then we’ll head up the East Anglian coast.’

‘Okay … and
Lucille
averages what speed?’

‘Let’s say about four knots.’

Walking pace, thought May.

‘So tomorrow we’ll have an hour or two of slow progress, but then the tide will take us all the way to Sovereign Harbour in Eastbourne. By my reckoning we’ll probably do the whole trip from here to Little Spitmarsh in three passages, possibly four. Is that okay with you?’

Long enough for her to catch her breath, short enough to see there was an end in sight if their tentative truce broke down. She nodded and relaxed while they cast off again and pottered along the peaceful channel in the evening light, looking for a convenient place to tie up for the night.

‘This’ll suit us,’ said Bill, pointing to a string of visitor moorings beneath the silhouette of the battlements of a medieval castle dominating the lonely shore line. ‘We’re not in anyone’s way here and it’ll be quiet. What are you like with a boat hook?’

‘I’ve always been good at picking up buoys,’ she replied, responding to his better mood but receiving a rather old-fashioned look in return. She grinned back at him before digging out the long hook to catch hold of the float attached to the mooring buoy. After her initial doubts, she was reassured that Bill was a perfectly competent yachtsman who wouldn’t lose his head at the first sign of trouble. And if he regarded her simply as an extra pair of hands to bring the boat round, someone who was only there on sufferance, they’d probably rub along fine. No one else knew where she was, or how to find her, which was the most important thing.

If
Lucille
hadn’t been as fretful as a hen on the wrong nest, agitated by a choppy current beneath her and a gusty wind above, May might have relaxed. As it was she slept fitfully, afraid of oversleeping, apprehensive about the journey and aware of Bill, on the other side of the curtain in the saloon, moving about in an equally disturbed sleep.

A summer storm of Shakespearean proportions jolted her awake just as her eyelids were getting heavy. She lay stiffly, listening to the roaring wind tearing at the rigging and the sound of water rushing past her just the other side of the hull as it set the wooden boat skittering and leaping about on the mooring buoy. A flare of white lightning lit the cabin as she clambered from her sleeping bag to investigate and found Bill dragging on wet weather gear.

‘I’m just checking the mooring,’ he told her above a cacophony of thunder and torrential rain beating on the coach roof. ‘I’m not planning on going to sea until this lot blows over, but if we’re not secured we might end up there anyway.’

Unless they were mown down by one of the much bigger vessels entering or leaving Portsmouth Harbour first, May worried. ‘Hang on,’ she said, ‘I’ll come with you.’

Bill looked ready to protest until the boat, having reached the end of its tether, pulled up with a jerk that nearly sent them both flying. ‘Make sure you wear a safety harness and clip on to the lifeline, then.’ He added, ‘We’ll make it the rule to wear life jackets and a harness whenever the situation calls for it. And remember, one hand for you and one hand for the boat when you’re moving around on deck. I don’t want to have to fish you out of the water.’

Dressed to round Cape Horn, they fought their way on deck together and into the full force of the squall. The current, rushing past at a terrifying speed, roared its malevolence and, in the dark, seemed set to sweep away anything in its path. May bent her head and held on for dear life as she followed Bill to the bow of the boat. A rivulet still found its way down her neck and she struggled to breathe as she gulped in the deluge driving against her face. Bill’s hood had blown off and his wet hair was plastered to his head as he knelt down to try to adjust the thick ropes which were straining with the tide. May crouched beside him, her numb fingers reluctant to obey as, together, she and Bill slipped and slid on the greasy deck, fighting the current and eventually succeeding in lashing a new line to their mooring.

After their pounding from the elements, it was relief when they finally got back below where the saloon was calm and cosy and the oil lamps created a warm, comforting glow.

‘Thank you,’ said Bill, hanging their coats up to dry. ‘That was so much easier with another pair of hands.’

Droplets slid down the bronze coils of his wet hair, which glistened like seaweed in the lamplight. May was reminded of a merman in a hoodie, but with rather more ‘man’ than ‘mer’. More man, certainly, than anyone thinking she was paired up with some ancient mariner would be happy about. And yet, she was surprised at how quickly she was relaxing with someone she barely knew.

‘Look at us.’ He grinned, catching her staring. ‘We’re drenched before we’ve even gone anywhere. Sure you haven’t changed your mind about this voyage?’

‘It’s all part of the experience, isn’t it?’ said May, watching as he took a bottle of malt whisky out of a locker. And it was lots better than the alternative. Aiden wouldn’t have been smiling; he’d have been telling her what a state she looked.

‘Yep, you can say that all right,’ Bill agreed. ‘One moment you’re peering through drizzle under gloomy grey skies and the next the sun is sparkling on turquoise sea. One day you long for the wind to pick up so you can sail properly and another it’s blowing a gale and you wish you’d put another reef in to stop all that sailcloth flapping about wildly.’

May couldn’t wait. For all that she was soaked through and shivering with cold, she could feel herself coming alive again at the promise of freedom and what the next few days would offer. Was it wrong, she wondered, to be secretly pleased that worrying news for Bill had stopped him putting her on a train?

‘Where did you learn your sailing?’ she asked. From what she’d observed it was an expensive hobby; how could a bloke like him afford it?

‘Blame Cecil,’ he said, finding a couple of glasses. ‘When I was little he was always poring over charts showing me where he’d been. The names caught my imagination: The Swinge, Cap de la Hague, the Bay of Biscay. I wanted to see those places too.’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ said May as he unscrewed the bottle. He paused and raised an eyebrow at her. She’d seen how easily far too many people in her line of work had drunk themselves into oblivion, or succumbed to other temptations, to want to go down the same route. ‘I don’t drink alcohol,’ she explained. ‘So you were always close to Cecil?’

‘Cecil took me on when I was eleven, after my mum died,’ he eyed her over his glass then stood up and lit a match under the kettle. ‘Hot chocolate?’

‘Sorry, that must have been very tough for you.’ She passed him a mug while he opened one of the sachets of instant drinks they’d bought earlier. ‘I’ll do it – you don’t have to wait on me.’

‘Sit down,’ he waved her away. ‘It wasn’t easy, but it was a long time ago.’

It didn’t make it any less painful though, she surmised. And now Cecil’s life was in danger too. Despite Bill’s calm façade, he was probably desperate to get through the coming days without incident.

‘It will give your uncle something to hold on for, knowing the boat’s on its way,’ she said quietly.

‘Abdominal aortic aneurysm,’ Bill said, shaking his head. ‘At least the hospital discovered it in time. It could have ruptured. But that explains why he’d lost so much weight. It was making it difficult for him to eat.’

‘So now they have to wait for him to regain his strength before they operate?’

He sat down, as if contemplating his uncle’s illness was hard to bear. ‘And to decide exactly how to repair the damaged section of the aorta. If he’s lucky they’ll be able to avoid opening him up and will be able to fix it with keyhole surgery, by threading the graft up through an artery in one of his legs. The advantage, of course, is that he’d recover much quicker. And there are fewer complications.’

He took a deep breath and May was almost moved to reach across the table to give his hand a reassuring squeeze, but the kettle began to whistle and he stood up.

‘What about you?’ he asked, pouring hot water into the mug. ‘Where did you learn to sail?’

May was thankful his back was turned. ‘Well, I joined a sailing club at university and took a basic skills course.’

‘That’s a sensible starting point,’ Bill agreed. ‘From there, you increase your knowledge with sailing experience.’

Did a couple of outings on other people’s motorboats count too? She certainly hoped so.

Bill smiled as he set the hot chocolate down on the small table between them and May smiled back, suddenly noticing that he was really quite good-looking in a red-haired way. If she was half the woman he’d got the impression she was from her response to Cecil’s ad, she might have contemplated assuaging all the hurt with a quick fling. Except, she wasn’t like that, was she? Besides, he was worrying himself sick about his beloved uncle and her confidence had been so badly dented that she’d run away to sea to lick her wounds. Not exactly a recipe for uninhibited lust.

Warm at last, if not dry, she unfolded herself and stretched. Bill’s sandy brows lifted; for some reason she’d really got his attention. Looking down she saw that where her hair had dripped there were two large wet patches which had turned her thin white T-shirt to cling film. ‘Oops,’ said May, quickly folding her arms. ‘One cold front too many, eh?’

Bill was sitting outside the next morning, watching a silver sheet of stratus cloud stretching across the sky, when muffled stirrings from the cabin beneath him told him May was awake and put him on notice to assume his poker face. The sun wasn’t up, but looking at May’s sheepish expression, when she eventually stuck her head out the hatch, he was sure her crimson face would make a convincing substitute.

‘Morning,’ he said, congratulating himself for keeping his cool. ‘Care for a cooked breakfast?’

As unexpected and delightful as the revelation of her wet T-shirt had been the night before, Bill was determined, as he followed May back down the companionway, that he was going to make damn sure to forget he’d even seen it. It had certainly drawn the previous evening to a rapid conclusion. Taking her mug of hot chocolate with her, May had scampered back to her cabin pretty sharpish, leaving him staring at the space she’d left, nursing his whisky and mentally naming boat parts whilst he waited for his vital signs to get back to normal. First he’d tried telling himself he was sitting on the settee berth looking at the table. The table that could be lowered to convert the settee berth into a
double bed
. No, that didn’t help. Floor? Yep, better; the cabin sole. And the space under the cabin sole? Bulge. Flip, no; bilge,
bilge!
Wet locker for willies. Bill shook his head. Wellies. Names of valves to let water in and out? Seacocks. Suddenly even the most innocent places were laden with innuendo.